#bxnge

Opening his eyes just enough to peer through his lashes, he notes the blinds drawn over the windows, obscuring most of the harsh sunlight. Even in his foggy, sleep-induced state, he makes a mental note to thank you for thinking of everything to prevent the worst case scenario hangover. Fortunately, his head is only throbbing a little bit—he vaguely remembers being forced to down maybe two glasses of water per drink he had by one of his more responsible friends, and he makes a mental note to thank him too.

Despite the ache in his head, it could be worse—it’s nice, not too bright, quiet, and if he’s being honest, he’s warm and feeling good. His lagging brain works overtime to understand the reason why until he registers a wet warmth around his cock and a loud slurping sound.

It feels like a stab to the head, but he almost breaks his neck with how fast he looks down.

His mouth waters at the sight, and even more at the feeling. You’re on your stomach between his legs, blanket draped over your shoulders, and you’ve got your pretty lips stretched around his cock and fingers around what area of his length you can’t quite take in. You take him in and drag off of him at a lazy pace, eyes closed and lashes fanning over your cheeks. When you pull back, you do so with a suck accompanied by another loud slurp, and he lets out a sleepy moan.

That gets your attention, has you lifting your gaze to look up at him through your lashes—a sight he’s seen many times before but has yet to tire of. (In fact, it usually has him feeling quite the opposite.) You bob your head one last time before pulling off.

“Sleep well?” you ask, still moving your hand as you look up at him. He groans again, making his third mental note of the day to thank god for you.

“Fuck.” It’s all he can manage.

You giggle, kiss the tip of his length—the action has a shiver running up his spine—and give it a few more licks before choosing just to watch him watch you tug on his cock.

“You still in the mood for this?” You’d agreed some time ago that wake-up sex was all right—more than all right, even—for the both of you, but you still wanted to make sure before it progressed. He’d also been so drunk last night, and might not have meant what he wanted to do today. It was important to check.

Luckily, your anxieties are met with reassurance in the form of a loud whine and dark eyes staring back into yours.

“Always am,” he says when he finds his words, motioning for you to come up. You give him a few more strokes before letting go, crawling up the bed on your hands and knees, and he kicks his boxers off at the ankle.

His grip is firm at the back of your neck as he pulls you down for a kiss, unbothered by the fact that you just had his dick in your mouth the same way you care nothing about the fact that he’s got morning breath. You immerse yourself in the kiss, eyes fluttering shut to concentrate your senses on the feel of his mouth on yours, his teeth sinking into your bottom lip gently.

You’re brought back to reality when you feel him tug at your pajama shorts, and you giggle into the kiss. He grunts and tugs more insistently until you pull away to shimmy out of them before going right back to kissing him.

“These too. I need them off,” he mumbles into the kiss, stretching the band of your underwear and letting it snap back against your hip. You make a noise of protest before releasing his lips once more.

“No, bitch. I’m not done blowing you.”

To your surprise, he whines again instead of jumping to it. “But I want to eat you out.”

“Are you seriously refusing getting oral in favor of giving oral?” you ask, an incredulous look on your face as you stare at him. “Who are you?”

“Hey,” he protests, getting up on his elbows. “What you’re implying is rude and false.”

You snicker. He’s right—he loves it just as much—but teasing him is always fun. Your response only makes him whine again.

“Come on. If you blow me, I’m just going to come and fall back asleep. It’s not going to be fun.”

Okay, that’s fair, you think. He has a point. You purse your lips, giving it some thought before opening your mouth to speak.

“And if you eat me out,” you say, following his train of thought with a little grin spreading across your face, “then you can fuck me after and make me come twice before we both fall back asleep.”

He grins back. “That’s what I’m saying, woman. Now get that thing off and come up here.”

You roll onto your side for a bit to shuck your panties off and then get back onto your knees. You lean in for a few more kisses, tongues sliding together languidly. In the early hours of the morning, both your bodies are still sensitive from sleep, and even making out has you both moaning.

A shock goes through your nerves when you feel him smack your ass to move you along. You nearly snort at his impatience, but the look on his face says he isn’t kidding around, so you stand on your knees with a smirk. You straddle his chest, the pillows cushy against your knees as you move forward.

You dip your head to look at him once you’re where he wants you, and the sight of him licking his lips while he stares at your pussy already has you breathless.

“God, finally,” he says, voice rough and lower than usual, “I’ve been thinking about this all week.”

You don’t even get a chance to respond before he stretches his neck and buries his face in your pussy, eager to taste. Whatever you were about to say is lost in a loud moan, hands scrambling for the headboard to support yourself as you lower onto his face, easing the strain in his neck.

He draws out his licks up your slit before flicking your clit with his tongue, repeating the motion over and over. His fingers are rough as they squeeze your ass, pulling your hips down. He eats you out with such vigor, and it’s dizzying.

“God,” you half-gasp, half-laugh. “You aren’t holding back, huh?”

“When you taste this good? No.”

Shit, okay. You’re sure his face is already a mess, given how slick your thighs feel. You moan as he dips his tongue between your folds, moving up slowly in a long stripe up your slit. He pulls away again, sucking his lips into his mouth when he withdraws his tongue and humming in delight at the taste.

He’s only started, but you’re already greedy, reaching down to pull on his hair gently with a whine of his name. “Don’t stop.”

It makes him laugh.

“Jesus, so in a rush so early in the morning.” He uses his thumb to draw circles around your clit as he talks, and it has you dazed. “I just want to take my time with you.”

You really have nothing to say to that. It only fuels the fire burning in your lower belly, and you let him do what he wants.

He takes you apart slowly, as if piece by piece. The way his tongue moves is delicious, almost torturous, and when you grind against it he moans into your pussy. He’s relentless with his lips as he sucks on your clit between tracing patterns of god-knows-what, and it only eggs him on when you tug on his hair.

His hands leave their place on your ass, one coming up to toy with a nipple as he eats you out. In your dazed state, you don’t even think about where the other hand’s disappeared to until you hear a familiar schlick over and over, accompanied by the sound of skin slapping, and your mind spins even more with how hot it is that he’s so turned on by getting you off.

You struggle to open your eyes, but when you do, he’s looking up at you with his own dazed, lidded ones. The eye contact makes him moan (as does his own hand around his cock), and his lips around your clit send vibrations through it that have you feeling warm all over.

The coil in your stomach grows tighter and hotter, and a moan of his name is all he needs to know that you’re close. He keeps at his steady pace, tongue merciless against your clit through your orgasm—and for a while after.

You protest and pull away, sitting back on his chest. “Stop, I’m sensitive.”

He’s openly panting, and now that you look at him, you can say you’re right—his face is covered in your wetness. The sight of him licking it off of his lips is plain erotic. You feel his chest heave up and down underneath you as he tries to catch his breath. You lift yourself to give him an easier time, but your thighs are shaking, so there’s only so much you can do. His glazed-over eyes are still staring at you as he wipes the excess he can’t reach on the back of his hand.

“I’d make you come with my mouth again if I weren’t so fucking hard,” he says between breaths. When you look back, you see he’s got his hand still wrapped around the base of his erection, twitching and dripping precum. You nearly moan at the sight, at a complete loss for words, especially after your orgasm.

He makes a noise, making you look back down at him, and pats your hips gently. “Baby, come down. I want to kiss you.”

You immediately clamber off of his chest, happily settling in beside him on the bed. You’re happy to make out a little more, but this time you’re moving more lazily, still in your post-orgasm daze. It’s a while before you’re ready again, but when your kisses grow more forceful and your hand replaces his, he’s given the go-signal.

He breaks the kiss, touches his nose to yours, and you giggle.

“Condom?” he asks. You normally use one to be extra safe, even though you’re normally on the pill, but you’re reminded of the fact that things are going to be extra difficult for him today with one of his longer-than-normal hangovers, and you want to ease the burden.

“Not today,” you say, and laugh when he punches the air, biting his lip in a grin.

You lean in to kiss him again, not pulling away as you swing a leg over his torso and scooch back until you’re right above his cock. He sighs, half out of frustration and half out of pleasure, when you start grinding.

“Hurry,” he whines, drawing out the last syllable.

“Now who’s in a rush?”

He glares at you—it’s jokingly, but you can tell what he wants. “Just put it in, holy shit.”

You laugh, but sit up and sink down on him anyway, inch by inch. When you’re bottomed out, fully seated on his hips, you both let out a moan.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” he breathes, hands coming onto your hips to start helping you move. You lift yourself off, easing back down slowly, and repeat, head tipping back at how full of him you feel.

He settles his feet on the mattress and starts lifting his hips to meet yours, falling into a rhythm that you can manage to follow. You muse, absently, about how riding him was supposed to get him to move less and avoid any more headaches, but the sensation of him pounding into you is distracting.

He fucks into you at a steady pace—it’s not too fast for the morning, not too overly drawn out either, but it’s good, and it’s got him loud. The feeling of you warm and wet around him combined with the still half-conscious state he’s in robs him of his inhibitions, has him moaning loud and low, uncaring of whoever hears. Lazy by nature, he’ll admit it’s also fucking great that he doesn’t have to move much at all, and even whatever movement he does with his hips is worth it. The sight of you moving up and down on his lap, tits bouncing with every movement, and the sound of you gasping at how good his cock makes you feel all have him thrusting into you with even more earnest.

Your thighs start to ache—you did just wake up too, after all—so you slow the roll of your hips and take the time to admire him, dragging a hand up his torso. You slide into the motion, crawling forward until your face meets his again, and you see how much he loves it up close, eyes hooded and dazed as they stare into yours. Your hips pick up the pace once more, and he shuts them completely, groans softly, fingers digging what you think might turn into bruises on your hips.

It’s arousing in its intimacy—the closeness and the fact that you can feel so much of him inside you, hot and hard inside you without anything between. Your breathing quickens at the feeling, and you start to move faster.

“God, you feel so good,” you choke out, hands cupping his jaw as you ride him. “Remind me again why we don’t fuck like this all the time.”

“Do you think I know,” he responds, almost all in one breath. His mind is foggy with lust, and he grunts, thrusting deep into you before speaking again. “I might, ah, come soon—”

“Me too,” you pant, holding onto him.

It’s only a moment before you feel him spill into you completely, still rocking his hips upward but sloppier now as he rides out his orgasm. The look on his face as he does is almost angelic but erotic at the same time—bed head an even bigger mess, eyelids fluttering, cheeks flushed—and it has you following him shortly after, nails digging into his skin as you come.

He groans when you pull off of him. Your thighs are shaking, and your cunt is dripping with his load, but it’s such a satisfying feeling you can’t begin to complain. You give him a kiss before slowly rolling onto your side into the crook of his arm, and look up at him.

Your voice is raspy when you speak. “How’s that for a hangover cure?” you ask with a grin, and he grins right back and kisses you, rubbing your arm.

“Fucking ace.”

“Hmm,” you hum happily in response, snuggling in closer. A hand comes up to caress his jaw. “Still want me to make you ramen?”

“Yes, please.”

You roll over again carefully—you’re going to have to clean up down there first before you head anywhere else—and manage to climb off the bed, heading toward the bathroom. “Two minutes, and then come with?”

He groans, not moving. “But the bed is so cozy. And warm. And I might get dizzy if I get up.”

You roll your eyes from the bathroom, opening the door a crack to look at him. “You’re such a big baby. You’re fine.”

He whines, but gets up when you head into the kitchen, stumbling after you and overdoing his complaints just to make you feel bad. But he gives you the same sweet thank-you kiss he always does when you roll your eyes and slide the ramen bowl over, and as you dig into your own breakfast opposite him, you decide that, yes, it is very fortunate that your boyfriend is not an unpleasant drunk—especially given the sort of outcomes that follow his drunken antics.

His eyes shoot open, gazing up at your ceiling in the dark as he tries to catch his breath. At any other time, he might be embarrassed by the scene he assumed he was making, but tonight with his mouth dry and mind running a mile a minute, all he’s focused on is getting the thoughts out of his head.

There are better ways to wake up than being rudely forced out of sleep by a nightmare, he decides, pushing up into a sitting position. For what reason, he’s not sure, but if it helps, he’s doing it—anything to calm himself down, bring him back to his senses.

He presses the heels of his hands over his eyes, doing his best to even out his breathing, his heart rate, and he curses a little to himself as flashes of the dream replay beneath his eyelids. He hunches over as he talks himself through it, drawing his knees close to his chest.

The motion makes the mattress shift, and he hears a hum accompanied by the sound of someone moving in the sheets and—oh.

That’s right. He isn’t alone tonight.

Grateful for the reminder, he twists to face you. He looks over you, and decides that, alright, yes, there are better ways to wake up than being rudely forced out of sleep by a nightmare, but there are worse places to wake up than beside the comfort of your favorite person. Right now, this is all he needs.

There is a pang of guilt in his chest when he says your name once, quietly, and he half-hopes you don’t wake up, half-hopes you do. It’s desperate, maybe, that he’s waking you for this, but his anxiety-ridden brain is grasping for solutions, and this is the first to come to mind.

Mostly to his relief, you open your eyes, blinking blearily at him as you try to adjust to the darkness.

“Mm, what’s up, sweetie?” you mumble, voice hoarse from hours of silence. While being woken up at almost three in the morning might not seem like an ideal situation, you’re more concerned about the fact that your boyfriend seems to be looking at you with panicked, tired eyes. Your eyebrows knit together as you squint at him in the dark. “You okay?”

He lets out a long exhale through his nose, says nothing, does something with his head that you aren’t sure is a nod or a shake. You motion for him to come near, which he does, sliding back down onto the bed. He fits himself snugly into your arms and embraces you at the waist. Face buried in you and eyes still open, he sighs.

“Sorry,” he says, “that I woke you, I mean. I just had a bad dream.”

You hum in understanding, honestly unsurprised. You noticed that he’d been getting more and more exhausted and stressed out by the day, and it had clearly affected his subconscious.

It’s subtle, but you can feel the slight tremble in his hands at your sides. You stroke his hair, hoping to soothe him. “You want to talk about it?”

He shakes his head, essentially rubbing his face into your shirt.

“Not now, I think,” he says. “Right now, I just want...” He trails off, pulls even closer to you, and you shift, curving your spine to hold him more completely. You kiss the top of his head, needing no more words.

He’s taller than you, but looks so small right now, his body curled into yours—it’s a little disorienting, but not unwelcome. You fit together just right still, filling each other’s empty spaces, like putting two pieces of a puzzle together. You want to know what’s on his mind, and maybe you’ll bring it up tomorrow when he’s feeling better, but right now, he just wants this, and you’re more than happy to give it to him, all care about time and tomorrow’s responsibilities out the window.

“I’m right here,” you mumble into his hair, fingers running through the strands. He visibly relaxes, letting his weight drop into the bed a little more.

“Yeah,” he says, voice muffled by your shirt. You feel the tension bleed out of his shoulders, like it’s exactly what he needed to hear. “Yeah.” He repeats it, you assume mostly to himself, and his voice is a little softer, a little sleepier.

You give his head another kiss. He sighs, almost melts into your warm embrace, when you start humming, hoping it provides some comfort. His heartbeat slows, almost so it matches yours, and soon enough he’s drifted off to sleep.

You’ll admit you don’t have the best track record with maintaining a good body clock. You’d say you’re much better now than you were when you were younger, but you never managed to get rid of a couple of awful habits you developed in high school, try as you might.

This is the reason you are awake tonight, cursing yourself for not having started this PowerPoint sooner. This morning you came to the horrifying realization that the presentation you are supposed to give at work is in two days and you maybe have three-fourths of unedited content, and the one-fourth plus editing plus designing left to do. And you’d went and wasted your preparation time by spending the weekend out of town, even. You cursed your absentmindedness for a good half hour.

Now, however, you’re happy to say you’re making good progress, since you’d been in the same place at your desk as you were hours ago when you got home and flung open your laptop.

When you finally take a break to get some stretching in before you finish editing, you twist your chair around for a quick glance at the open door behind you leading into your pitch-black bedroom. If you listen quietly enough—and ignore your laptop’s whirring—you can hear the soft snores coming from inside the room, courtesy of your very cute and tired boyfriend. It isn’t ideal to either of you that you aren’t in bed with him, but you’d dug your own grave by forgetting about your work and he’d understood that it had to be done, and left you to it with a kiss goodnight.

Still, tonight the bed isn’t quite as warm as he’d normally like it to be.

It’s a little past one in the morning when you hear the muffled sound of footsteps and your boyfriend stumbles into the home office, only wearing a pair of pajama pants. You eyes are burning as you stare at the screen and type, wrists almost bound to the cold surface of your computer as you’re immersed in finishing up your editing, and you barely notice him enter. It’s only when he’s got a hand on your shoulder that you turn and look up.

“Still not done?” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, speech still slurred by sleep.

You shake your head. “Sorry, love.”

“Mm.” He pulls up a chair next to you, and all but falls into it with a thud. “How much more?”

“Just a little bit. You don’t have to sit here with me. Go back to bed.”

“It’s cold,” he complains.

“You could put on a shirt.”

“You know what I mean.” You do, and your heart softens a little. You put a hand on his knee and trace circles on it with your thumb apologetically. He leans forward in his chair to cross his arms on your desk and lays his head there, tired eyes blinking up at you. “I can wait.”

“You’re going to hurt your back,” you say, getting up off of your chair. “Here.”

He moves into your bigger, more comfortable chair, and only completely gets what you were intending to do when you sit back down—into his lap.

He smiles, winding his arms around your waist and snuggling his cheek into your shoulder. “Much better.”

You work like this, with your half-asleep boyfriend clinging onto you. You’ll admit it’s a little distracting, but it’s also much more comfortable now—the warmth of his skin seeping through the thin cloth of your shirt, the soft breathing helping you relax—and you finish your editing in no time. You close your laptop and shut off your lamp, and the change in light makes him flinch awake. You rub his arm, turning your head to face him as he lifts his head off of your back.

“Done,” you say, barely above a whisper, and give him a kiss on the cheek.

“Finally,” he yawns.

You unwind his arms so you can get up, making him whine at the loss of warmth before you pull him up by the hand. Together, you make the short trek to your bedroom, shutting the light in the office on the way, momentarily forgetting about work and deadlines. You could finish the last bit tomorrow.

The fatigue hits you just as you crawl under the covers with him. He stretches out, opening up like a starfish, and you instinctively move into his side, fitting into it nicely before he relaxes his limbs, putting an arm around you. You throw an arm over his bare torso and pull yourself closer to him, head resting on his chest. You lean up to the underside of his jaw a sleepy kiss and settle back in, enjoying the feel of his soft, bare skin.

“Thank you,” you mumble, already drifting off.

“Come here,” he urges, sitting up and tugging you closer to him. You giggle, pulling the cups of your bra back over your tits and walking on your knees until your hips hover right above his. He holds you by the waist on instinct, looking at you with a glint in his eye. “You little devil.”

“Me? A devil?” you ask, tilting his face up to yours. His grin is lazy but gaze alert as his hands smooth up your sides, then back down, until he settles on massaging the soft skin on top of your hipbones. Belatedly, he makes a noise of agreement.

You give him a little pout. “In this?” You take his preoccupied hands and move them over the lacy detail of your bra. His gaze follows. With his hands in yours, you squeeze your breasts gently, and he does his best to quiet the huff that leaves him at that action. “I don’t think white lace quite fits the devil image.”

You pull your hands away, but his remain. He smooths the pads of his thumbs over the area where your nipples are, languidly tracing circles around them. It’s stimulating, but not enough.

“Mm.” He looks up at you, smirking. “Devil dressed like an angel, then.”

“Ooh, I like that.”

He laughs. You push his bangs back, getting a good look at his face. He really is pretty, you think, prettier than most would be comfortable with having as their boyfriend, but you don’t mind. Even if insecurity eats at you every now and again, he always finds a way to reassure you of how highly he thinks of you—in one way or another.

And anyway, it’s nice to have someone so pretty be also so yours.

You slide your hands up the sides of his neck, cupping his jaw.

“God, you’re pretty,” you tell him, voicing your thoughts. It comes out as an exhale. Sometimes looking at him is enough to get you going, but now you have the mental image of him falling apart above you from awhile ago, so there’s not much you can do to stifle your arousal at this point. He never liked it when you did that anyway.

He snorts, but the smile that spreads across his face is sincere. “Am I?”

“Mm.” Your fingers tangle in the hair just above the back of his neck, scratching lightly. As expected, he lets out a noise akin to a purr. You move closer, close enough that your noses are touching, and his eyes are already shutting and lips already parting in anticipation. Your words are in a whisper against his lips. “My pretty boy.”

His lips turn up at the corners.

“All yours.”

You feel a slow gush of arousal at his words, but before you can act on it, he leans up, pressing his lips to yours. He does it again once, twice, and then takes your bottom lip between his two and gives it a tiny bite. The way you kiss is gentle and slow, and feels different from what the two of you had been doing earlier, but not in an unwelcome way in the least, with the way you’re sighing.

There is a quiet wet sound as you separate. You don’t even realize your eyes are closed until he nudges your nose with his, and when you look into his eyes, they are dark with want. You smile, and lower yourself onto his lap, thighs on the outer sides of his. You relish in the noise that escapes him and the twitch of his erection underneath you when you begin to move your hips slowly.

“Birthday boy ready for round two?”

He nods, biting his lip in a grin. You feel his palms smooth up your back, and he fingers the band of your bra. “Mind if I…?”

“All yours,” you quip, and his grin widens before he pulls you into a kiss again, unlatching your bra while he does it.

“I noticed you put this back on earlier,” he mumbles into your mouth as he pulls the straps off of your shoulders.

“I know you like doing the honors.”

“That’s fair.”

You fling the garment away, and he is on you in an instant, flipping your positions so you’re lying on the bed beneath him. His fingers dig into your hips as you kiss, pulling them to his, and he grunts into your mouth when the underside of his cock first slides between your lips—fuck, he thinks. You feel so wet and warm already, even through the cloth.

The friction your lacy underwear provides is both frustrating and satisfying, for the both of you. It’s difficult for him to focus on kissing when he’s distracted by the pleasure, so you take it upon yourself to break the kiss and start down his neck, fingers of both hands linking at his nape. You press your lips to the warm skin a couple of times before parting your lips and taking a spot between your teeth, biting down for only a second.

His neck fetish totally goes both ways, and when you start sucking on the spot, he lets out an unabashed moan, grinding harder. Your panties are—as is the usual case with them if you keep them on while doing anything more than kissing with him—totally soaked through, and you aren’t sure if any laundering is going to save them, but of course that’s far from what you’re thinking of right now.

Right now, you just need to get this beautiful, expensive, godforsaken last piece of clothing off. You pull away from his neck, panting.

“Love,” you manage, between breaths. He stills his movement to listen to you—rather, he slows it down significantly, so you’re still left trying to fight the haze of pleasure as you speak. His pupils are dilated, but his eyes follow the path of your hand when you reach down and snap the waistband of your panties against your skin. “Can you help me get these off?”

At this, he actually stops the rock of his hips and looks up at you, and you give him a cheeky little smirk. He exhales a laugh and mumbles an affirmative seemingly nonchalantly, but you can see how much it’s affected him in the way he keeps his wide eyes on you even as he shifts positions. He starts to tug the material down your hips and you lift your legs to help him along.

“What do you want to do?” he asks, crawling over you again once you’re rid of your panties and giving you a kiss far too chaste for how the other parts of your bodies are reacting.

You return the kiss, tongue swiping across his bottom lip before he reciprocates.

“It’s your birthday,” you tell him when you pull away. You smooth a hand over his chest, admiring the pink flush that goes from there all the way up his neck to his cheeks before locking gazes once more. “Tonight’s totally yours.”

He smiles. “Really?”

“I let you fuck my face, didn’t I?” you ask, giving him a look, and you don’t miss the twitch against your thigh. He lets out a laugh, as if to concur.

He leans in to give you another kiss, just as sweet, but this time you can almost taste his eagerness in the way his lips move against yours, and it’s delicious. “You sure?”

“Of course,” you say, smiling into the kiss.

You kiss like this for a while, your mind sinking back into that hazy, aroused state, and as your tongues brush against each other you barely register the hand sliding down your body—until a finger slides up your slit, and you gasp.

“So for starters,” he says, repeating the motion a few more times to get his fingers slick with your arousal before circling your clit with them, eliciting another noise from you. “I want to deal with this.”

The whimper that comes out of you is absolutely sinful, but he maintains composure, instead silencing it with his lips.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice,” he murmurs, breaking the kiss but staying close. “Does getting me off really turns you on that much?”

Both the stimulation and his words bring a flush to your face. “D-Duh. You act like you don’t—ah—know that.”

“Oh, I know,” he hums, and watching with delight as you buck your hips up, trying to get a little more pressure from his finger, but he keeps up the same slow pace. “I just like hearing it from you.”

“Ass,” you say, but take his face in your hands and bring your lips to his anyway. Hoping it serves as a good enough distraction, one hand comes down to push his fingers harder against your clit, but he holds you off.

“Ah-ah. You said tonight was up to me, right?”

Fuck. You almost regret what you said, but something about the way his eyes light up when he’s in control makes the will to take your words back die in your throat. Your voice is small when you respond with a “yeah”.

He gives you another kiss, and another, and once you’re lost again in the satisfaction of just kissing him, he dips a finger into you. You break the kiss to moan his name against his lips, and it has him dizzy with arousal.

“God, you’re wet.” He dips his head and watches himself move his finger in and out easily, and the lewd sounds it makes have you both red in the face. He looks back up at you before adding another finger, making you whine in the back of your throat. “I can’t wait to fuck you.”

“You don’t have to wait,” you pant. He gives you a sideways grin, scissoring his fingers.

“Sounds like someone really wants it.”

“Fuck yeah I want it,” you nearly growl, and reach a hand down to grab his cock. He moans in surprise, instinctively bucking up into your touch. “I’ve been waiting to get this thing in me the whole night.”

He licks his lips, trying to stay in control as you start pumping him. “H-Have you?”

“Yeah.” And, because you know he’s waiting for you to say more, you continue. “You don’t even know. God, I just—shit, yeah, that’s good—ah, I wonder if today’s your birthday or mine, because everything up to this point has been like a wet dream for me. You’re so fucking hot.”

He doesn’t reply, only moans when you twist your hand in an upward motion, tightening your grip around his cock. The thumb that’s been stimulating your clit grows sloppy in movement. If you love it when he runs his mouth aimlessly during sex, he loves it when you talk dirty—and you can see the effect it has on him.

“Waking you up with a handjob, fooling around in the shower, and—fuck—you in that suit you wore tonight? Walking porn. I wanted to get on my knees and suck you off the moment I saw you.”

“Fuck, stop, I’m close,” he gasps, his eyes shut, and you grin, giving the base of his cock another squeeze before releasing it. You wait for him to catch his breath, trying to ignore the burning feeling in the pit of your stomach. Nothing you just said is a lie, and you’re still holding off your own orgasm until he fucks you properly, so you want him now more than ever. You swallow, watching him patiently.

He sits back on his knees. Once he’s gotten himself back together, he speaks again. “Jesus, okay. Go get a condom.”

You can’t reach for the sidetable drawer fast enough, but once you open it, you’re met with a giant mess, through which you have to scavenge for the condom.

“Jeez, we really gotta throw some stuff away. Look at all these candy wrappers,” you say absentmindedly as you rummage, and you hear an affirmative hum.

“Sorry,” he says, but it sounds odd and muffled, so you look back only to find him sucking on his fingers, lapping up your juices, and you stare. He only notices you staring after a second, and pulls his fingers out of his mouth with a pop. “What? You’ve seen me do this before. I like how you taste.”

Your cheeks heat up. “Oh my god, I cannot find this stupid thing fast enough.”

He laughs. When you finally fish out a condom from your drawer, you rip open the packaging and move to roll it on him, but he snatches it away from you.

“No, no.” He looks at you accusingly, doing it himself. “I don’t trust you to just put the condom on. You’re probably going to do some magic shit with your hands while you’re there, and you know I’m not going to last.”

You roll your eyes, but don’t deny it. He’s probably right.

Once it’s on, he walks on his knees into the space between yours, smoothing his hands up your calves as he does. You’re propped up on your elbows, and you shoot him a sly grin, parting your legs even further for him.

“So, how do you want me?” you purr. He crawls over you, returning your smile with a smirk of his own, half-lidded eyes raking up your body before they meet yours. He leans in, mouth by your ear, and it sends a shiver down your spine when he speaks.

“Well, I was thinking about the other night…” he says, and plants a slow, soft kiss in the spot underneath your ear. You whimper in anticipation. “You took me so well, babe. Mind doing that for me again?”

Immediately you know what he wants, and god, thank god, because that was exactly what you wanted too. He pulls back and you give him the tiniest of nods. He shuffles back on his knees to give you room and you turn over, folding your arms in front of you and then pushing back, until he gets a good view of you dripping from your core down your thighs, ass in the air.

“Like this?” you ask, looking over your shoulder at him.

He bites his lip. “Perfect.”

You face the pillows again, not wanting to strain your neck, and the mattress dips as he walks forward on his knees closer to you. The feel of his fingertips tracing up your thighs has you clenching around nothing, and you realize for only the billionth time how desperate you are for this, but he’s taking his sweet time.

He grinds his length along your slit again, and you groan in exasperation.

“You are literally not getting any younger here.”

“Just teasing,” he says, with a touch of laughter in his voice, and you bite back your retort and the urge to hit him because finally, he pushes into you—slowly, inch by inch, but god, it’s good. You don’t realize he’s holding his breath until he’s fully sheathed inside you, and the quiet gasp that leaves him is like the final breath of a dying man—just as desperate as you are.

When he folds in half, curling his torso over yours, he shifts inside you, making you whimper out his name. He presses a kiss to your shoulder before he starts to move, one hand on your hip, the other one holding him up over you. The steady slide of his cock in and out of you lights a fire in the pit of your belly. He’s silently thankful that you barely need any time to adjust to him anymore—with your pussy so warm and wet around him, he wouldn’t have been able to hold off on moving.

“You feel so good,” he mumbles, sounding dazed and already out of breath. You moan in response—in agreement because fuck, you feel so full of him and it’s amazing—and push back against him. It has him snapping his hips against your ass faster, angling his thrusts to pleasure you properly. The sound of skin slapping skin rings in your ears and it’s delicious.

One particular thrust has you crying out, and that combined with the instinctive clench of your walls around his cock is enough to drive him crazy. He keeps the same angle, pounding into your g-spot and watching your knuckles turn white as you fist the bedsheets. Fuck if that isn’t hot, he thinks, his mind clouded with lust, and belatedly mourns the fact that he didn’t choose a position that let him see your face contort with pleasure.

Just the thought of it has his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass, and his grip has your thighs trembling even more. You, as is usual when you’re with him, can barely control the way your body reacts. He fucks you so well—tonight is no exception. You’d already been working towards your orgasm with everything you’d done with him all day, especially tonight, and you can feel the warm coil inside you tighten even further.

Your knees slide further apart, giving him more access, but whether it’s from wanting more or becoming weaker, you can’t tell. Either way, it lets him in even deeper, and you almost drool.

“Lov— ah,” you say—rather, attempt to, breath hitching when he draws out his thrusts. You lift your face from your arms, wanting him to hear you talk him closer to climax. “Love the way you fill me up, babe.”

You don’t see, but his eyes roll back in his head. “Oh, fuck.”

He picks up the pace, and you can tell he’s getting close. You slide a hand between your legs, using two fingers to touch yourself and help you along.

“Always, hhah, so good,” you mumble. You wish you had more to say to spur him on, but you’re approaching your own orgasm, and it’s a little hard to think. “Baby, could you please…”

You lean onto one side and move your other arm back, trying to reach for his hand on your ass, and he knows what you want.

The strain in the arm holding up is obvious as he pushes more of his weight onto it, his other hand replacing yours on your clit. He’s openly panting, breath hitting the space between your shoulder blades.

“Shit, I’m almost there,” he says between breaths. “God, you’re so fucking beautiful, wish I could see your face, love, ah, wanna make you come too. Wanna make you fall apart—”

“Getting there,” you respond, and it’s true, you’re so close, hips alternating between thrusting back against him and pushing into the circles he’s rubbing into your clit, greedy for stimulation. But as far as you can tell by his gradually sloppy movements, he’s right there with you, orgasm fast approaching.

You come with a string of expletives and an almost embarrassingly loud moan of his name, clutching tight to the sheets before you lose your grip on them completely. You’re barely able to hold yourself up for long after, but the hand between your legs returns to your hips to support you and keep you steady, only enough to let him push into you one last time before he spills into the condom, gasping your name into your back.

You stay like this for a few moments, just breathing, before he pulls out and your legs give in under you. You know your body is going to be in hell tomorrow, just by the way your muscles are twitching.

While you’re lying on your stomach sated and fucked out, he fumbles with the condom in his post-orgasm daze, tying it up and aiming it at the trash bin across the room. It misses, but he couldn’t care less right now. Instead, he flops onto his back next to you. You don’t move.

“Hey.”

You respond with a muffled noise.

“Turn over,” he whines. “I wanna cuddle.”

You lift your head for a second. “I’m dead.”

“It’s my birthday.”

You lift your head again and face him. “So when I die, you want me to come back from the dead for your birthday?”

“Yes. Not the point.” He opens his arms. “C’mere.”

You snort, but roll into his open arms anyway, and he folds them around you, letting out a content sigh.

“So…” You trace patterns into his chest with your finger, making him look down at you curiously. You look up at him with a tiny smile. “Did you enjoy today?”

The smile he gives you back is so wide you almost feel guilty for giving him just that first small one. “Are you kidding? Of course I did.” He gives you a kiss on the forehead. You laugh.

“Was it really that much of a dream come true for you to fool around five times in one day?”

“Yes,” he says, but snorts after. “I mean, yeah, that was fucking great. But seriously. I loved dinner, I loved the movie, I loved the stuff you got me, and I especially loved that.” He points to your discarded lingerie, lying pathetically on the floor. Now you snort.

“I don’t know if I can wear those panties again.”

“Was worth it.” He shrugs, and nudges the top of your head with his nose. “I loved spending time with you. Today as a whole was great, all of it. Not just the morning handjob, or the shower sex, or the one on the kitchen counter, or—”

You bring a hand to his mouth. “Enough.”

He snickers, kissing your fingers. Your eyes soften, and you move your hand to cup his cheek instead. “I’m glad you had fun.”

“Mm.” His eyes go into little moons, the way they do when he’s genuinely happy and comfortable, and your heart swells with pride and affection. He leans down to give you a kiss. “Thank you.”

You hum, giving him a kiss back before laying your head on his chest.

For a few moments you remain lying together in this position, and the only things you hear are his heartbeat and his breathing, and it’s so relaxing you could fall asleep to it. But you’re wide awake even if it isn’t all that early anymore, and you suddenly get an idea.

“Hey, you sleepy?” you ask, looking up at him again. He quirks an eyebrow.

“Not really, why?”

“Well, I was thinking…”

“Look, honey, I don’t know if my dick can take a round six—”

“No, you nerd,” you interrupt him, and he cracks a grin. “I was thinking we could try that new video game. The one I got you.”

His eyes widen. “God, I fucking love you.”

You grin, clambering off of him and flinch when he jumps up, racing to the living room where the TV is. You watch him fish out the game from the big box of gifts you got him and set it up, all while completely naked. Shaking your head, you walk—a little unsteadily at first, but you make it—over to your closet, where you grab yourself a pair of fresh panties and a shirt.

“You really wanna sit out there in your birthday suit?” You call after him, pulling the clothes on, and decide to bring him a pair of boxers when you follow.

“That’s what today’s about, dummy!” He yells right back. “I can’t believe you forgot.”

“Oh, fuck you. You better give me Player 1!”

“It’s possible.”

“I never get sick.”

“Come here.”

“I just came to ask if we had any Advil.”

“We do, but just—” You motion with your hands, gesturing for him to walk around your desk towards you. “Come.”

He drags his feet, obviously thinking this is ridiculous, but complies. Once he’s near you, you get up and hold your hands out, pressing the backs of them to his neck, his forehead, his nape—all warm enough to raise concern. He laughs at your doting, and you think you hear the congestion in his voice when he does.

“Seriously, I’m fine. I just need the Advil and I’ll be good to go for the concert on Friday.”

He is not fine—he always acts like this on the admittedly rare times he’s sick. He’ll deny being at risk of any illness at all, you’ll get into a tiny argument, he’ll win and you’ll let him be, then in the next hour, he’ll be whining like a puppy in a blanket burrito as you tut at him and adjust the temperature of the room for your poor, helpless boyfriend who could have started his journey to feeling better earlier on had he not been so in denial about being sick in the first place.

But you know there’s no fighting the madness of the system, so you shrug. “All right.”

He blinks, surprised. “All right? No fighting this time?” Seems like he knows the pattern too, but he’s as in denial as ever of what’s to come.

“Nope.” You point to the door. “Advil is in the bathroom, behind the mirror, on the middle shelf, if you’re sure that’s all you need...?”

He nods, but not convincingly. In fact, you think he might have hurt his head a little by doing so. “Yeah, that’s all.”

“All right.” You tilt your head up to him. “Now give me a kiss and let me go back to work. And you’ll let me know if you feel any worse, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he replies—is that a scratch in his voice you hear?—and grins as he leans down to give you a quick peck on the lips. You yourself don’t get sick often either, so this doesn’t phase you. Before he leaves the room, he turns back to you. “I’ll check up on you in an hour.”

You grin after him as he leaves, then shake your head, returning to your work. He’d be the one needing checking up on.

---

He was right about being fine that day, but when you get home from running errands the following day, you know you’ve succeeded in reading the signs.

Carrying a bag of groceries, you pop your head into the living room, seeing only a mess of hair above the back of the couch. Knowing him, he’s probably still wearing what he slept in—not sweatpants but real pajamas that you bought for him, the soft kind he loves—despite it being noon. You hear a sniffle over the noise of the TV, and your heart softens. This poor baby never learns. You walk over to where he’s sitting.

“Hi, love,” you say, gently, leaning over the back of the couch and seeing his slumped form laid across it. “Are you feeling any better?”

He shakes his head, then winces when, you suppose, he feels it throb in retaliation. “No,” he croaks. “I think I’m really sick this time. Tummy hurts. Throat hurts.”

You really can’t bear to tease him any more when he’s like this, and you’re embarrassed to admit it, but you are your softest and most caring when he is this vulnerable. All you want to do is pamper him and make him feel comfortable now, even though he exasperated you so much earlier.

You really love this kid.

The TV turns off with a click of the remote button, and you walk around the couch to sit beside him and repeat your motions of feeling his skin. This time, he lets you, without any eye-rolling or light scoffing. In fact, he’s got his puffy eyes shut, and he leans into every touch.

“You’re warm,” you note, the pout heavy in your voice. He makes a pitiful noise, nodding with as little motion as he can. You smile at him. “Want to get into bed and I’ll make you something nice?”

He cracks an eye open and smiles back wanly, before doing his tiny nod again. “Mhm.”

“That’s my boy. So easy to please.” You push his hair back gently, making sure not to move his head too much. His forehead is covered in a light sheen of sweat. “If only you were as easy to work with, then we would have been at this sooner and you would have been better off earlier, huh?”

“Don’t guilt me,” he whines, and you smile again, leaning in to press a kiss to his warm cheek.

“Sorry, love. I’m done, I promise. Now come on. Up with me,” you coax, and get off the couch, taking his hand. Slowly, sluggishly, he pulls his body into a standing position, and follows you to the bedroom, not letting go of your hand, even when you’re struggling with your one hand to pull the covers away nicely for him to settle under.

You leave him to get into bed and come back with a glass of water and a small towel to find him snuggled under the sheets, pulled up to his chin, his eyes closed. What a baby.

He opens his eyes when you come in, watching you wipe the sweat on his forehead with heavy eyes. He isn’t sleepy—you know he probably slept a good ten hours at the very least—but he is all at once sated and weighed by your care and his illness. You pause your wiping to run the knuckles of one hand very gently across his cheek, and smile. He smiles back the best that he can.

“Do we still have orange juice?” he asks, his voice scratchy.

“Mm. Do you want that to go with your chicken noodle?”

“Yes please.”

You lean over and give him a kiss on the forehead, which makes him close his eyes again, the little grin still present on his face. “Of course, sweetie.” You ruffle his (admittedly) sweaty hair before getting up, looking over your shoulder at him and watching him huddle under the covers into a short but well-deserved nap.

---

“Say ‘ah’!”

“Ahhh.” He complies, opening his mouth, and you guide the spoon into it. Your poor sick boyfriend is, apparently, too sick to even feed himself, but if you’re being honest, you don’t really mind feeding him anyway. He smiles, gulping down his last spoonful of soup when you gently pull the spoon out from between his lips. You put the spoon and bowl at the foot of his bed.

“How’s your tummy feeling?” you ask, feeling over the blanket to find where his stomach might be. You give it a little pat when you find it, making him smile.

“S’okay now. I think. Soup was good,” he says, and pulls your hand from his stomach to his lips so he can kiss the back of it. “Thank you, baby.”

Your heart does a little jump—you’ve been together for so long, and still he makes you feel so happy just by calling you that. You say nothing but slide your hands to cup the area where his jaw meets his neck, feeling his temperature again.

“You’re still pretty hot.”

“Um, yeah.” He raises an eyebrow. “Did you think my being sick would change that?”

It takes you a second before you get it, and when you do, you scoff.

“All right, mister,” you say, getting up, and you relish in his wide-eyed response to the loss of contact, “since you’re apparently well enough to sass me about your good looks—”

“What?”

“Then I guess I’m going to go into the other room—”

“No!” He grabs your hand just as you turn, making you swing back into facing him. “No, no. I’m sick. Stay. Please?”

He knows you’re joking (your face gives it away) but there’s a softness in his eyes that is sincere—that if he’d been mistaken and you really had intended on going, this is how he would plead with you. The warm feeling in your chest swells, and you come to his bedside once more, his face giving way to a grin as you do.

“Need you to take care of me.” He mumbles, pulling your hand up to his lips and kissing your fingertips. He knows he’s won—stupid kid and his stupid cheesy lines. Your resolve crumbles.

“Mm.” You lace your fingers with his, shaking your hands lightly in that position. “What do you want me to do, baby?”

He drags you closer to him by your arm, pulling like a rope until you have nothing else to do but fall into his blanket-covered lap. His eyes are puffy and his hair is a sweaty mess, but you still think he looks adorable. He runs a hand through your hair, and you cup his cheeks gently. To your surprise, he shuts his eyes tightly and lets out a prolonged groan.

“What?” you urge. He opens his eyes and pouts at you.

“I really want to make out with you right now.” He throws his head back in frustration, and your cheeks color just the slightest—whether it’s from his statement or the sight of his neck bared just for you, you’re not sure. It could be both. “You’re so cute when you’re in nurse mode.”

You smile in spite of your flush. “You sure that’s not because of your nurse ki—”

The hand in your hair haphazardly runs itself over your face in an attempt to shut you up, and you laugh. “No. Stop talking. Let me be sweet to you.”

“So telling me you want to make out with me is being sweet.”

“Yeah,” he says, in that “duh” way. You snort, and lean close to give him a kiss on the nose.

“No making out for you today,” you say, and he’s close to a whine again, so you follow it up just as quickly. “But I will crawl into bed with you and cuddle until you get up to vomit again.”

Your boyfriend cringes. “Don’t remind me.” He says, clutching his stomach, but after a second moves to make room for you, and you easily settle yourself into the indent he’s made in the bed. It’s warm and smells mostly like him amidst the penetrating scent of illness. You’re happy with that.

“Turn around,” you tell him, and his eyebrows knit together in confusion. “I wanna spoon you.”

That’s all he needs to be turned around in approximately 0.2 seconds. You laugh into the space between his shoulders, pressing your body into his back and winding an arm over him and around his waist. He sighs, and from behind him you feel the tension bleed out of his shoulders. You rub his tummy over his shirt, and press a kiss to the bit of skin between his hairline and the collar of his shirt. 

You don’t blame him for his eagerness to be in this position. It’s as therapeutic for you as it is him, being able to soothe him almost by just holding him like this. He curls his spine into the mould of your body, shifting so you fit together just so—this always how you end up, no matter how difficult he is about his sickness when he’s in denial of it, and you’ve never complained. You would happily stay like this with him for hours, take care of him until he’s well enough again, maybe make out once that happens.

For now, this is all you both need.

“I also just didn’t want you to vomit in my face.”

You’d like to consider yourself someone of sufficient confidence in herself for the most part—in whatever aspect, even physical. Still, you’ll admit you have your bouts of shyness every now and then, especially when it comes to becoming intimate with someone new… and especially with your current boyfriend.

It was ridiculous to you how good-looking someone could be—and that was the least of his attractive qualities. You felt it was only right that you were just a little bit more nervous getting touchy with him, even though he never made you feel that way with anything he did. It was just… well, you only had to look at him.

The pair of you are still in the early stages of your dating life, and are still learning the ropes of each other—and each other’s bodies. You’ve taken it slow for the most part, but recently have moved up a step to relentless making out. Today, for some reason, things escalated very quickly from just kissing, and he is all over you in a way he’s only been a couple of times before.

Not that you mind.

Of course, none of this is what’s going through your head at this very moment—in fact, your thoughts on anything other than what’s happening are blurring quite a bit, focusing only on his lips, hot against your skin as they were on your own lips just moments earlier. You’re sitting in his lap sideways, legs stretched out on the couch. With nothing else to do, you drag your hands through his hair, sighing in content as he drags kisses down your jaw. He chuckles when he hears the noise you make, and you feel the smile against your neck.

“Mm,” he hums, kissing a spot on your neck that has you stifling another sound, “you smell really good, you know.”

“That’s, ah— creepy, babe.” You manage to laugh, but it is breathy in execution. Your laugh makes you sound like you’re in a perfume commercial, which you suppose is relevant, given his comment. “Makes you sound like a dog.”

You sigh again when he sucks gently at a sensitive point, knowing you’re going to go through hell to cover up his marks later, but honestly in this moment you could care less. He takes his time in responding, instead running his hands down your sides to elicit another noise from you.

“Don’t care. It’s true.”

He nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, beginning to suck a dark mark into the spot. Your own hands, which you’ve been doing your best to control, cling onto his back, nails digging lightly into the fabric of his sweater, and you can’t help the moan that comes out when he bites you, teeth pressing into your skin with only enough force that you feel a light sting.

He lavishes the mark with his tongue before moving back on up your neck, leaving bruises of all colors in his wake. It probably took barely a few minutes, but your hazy mind registers it as having gone on for hours with how overwhelmed you are. This boy is unfairly good with his mouth. You aren’t even having sex and he’s got you out of breath and sighing his name.

He’s in the middle of darkening a blotch of red in the spot where your neck meets your shoulder when he stops.

Your eyes flutter open, and finally manage to focus on his face after a moment or two. “What’s up?”

“We should stop,” he pants, not quite meeting your gaze.

“Why?”

“Just… we might want to.” He bites his lip, but adjusts his sitting position in a way that has him accidentally rubbing something against your thigh. When you look at his face, his eyes are focusing elsewhere, staring down at the piece of work he’s turned your neck and shoulders into. He looks about as dazed as you feel, and that’s when you notice the blush sprouting out of the collar of his sweater and spreading across his neck and cheeks.

“I may have gotten a little carried away with this rainbow over here,” he admits, running a finger over the side of your neck. It makes you grin.

“Someone have a little bit of a neck fetish?”

You don’t think you’ve ever seen someone go as red as he does in this moment. But when he looks up and notices you’re smiling—not disgusted, not offended by his neediness and this random obsession with the expanse of skin under your jaw—he cracks a sheepish grin back.

“You could say that.” He shrugs, then lights up and his grin goes cheeky. “Also, you moaning my name was really hot.”

Your flush mirrors his, and you slap his shoulder lightly, making him laugh.

“Shut up.” You giggle, bringing your hands up to pull him in for a kiss. He laughs into the kiss before kissing back for real, moving his lips against yours for a while until you pull away, this time, and start down his jaw. You see his adam’s apple bob in response, and your face burns in anticipation.